Hell and Gone

23

Bide your time. That’s what prison teaches you, if nothing else. Bide your time and everything becomes clear and you can act accordingly.

—Terence Stamp, The Limey

HARDIE SPRANG EVE first—her cell was the closest to the elevator vestibule. She had been in one of her otherworldly Zen moments. After he unlocked her mask, Eve rubbed her eyes and asked what the hell was going on—where he got the old suit and weapons. Hardie said he’d explain later, then offered her a choice of weapons: the pen or the cane. Not surprisingly, she went with the pen. Very gallant of her, Hardie thought. The old man still needed his cane.

“You know, this is probably a trap,” Eve said. “They’re going to catch us and then torture the living shit out of us.”

“Probably. You want me to lock you back up?”

Eve smiled. “Duh.”

Cameron was next. Hardie unlocked his face mask and clapped him on the shoulder.

“That shot to his spine?” Hardie said. “It worked. Thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” said Cameron. “Tell me, did he cry like a little bitch?”

Next they went around the corner and freed Archie, who was stark naked and seemingly unconcerned about it. Hardie found it a bit difficult to take seriously a man whose balls were swinging around like the pendulum on a grandfather clock, but so be it. Eve, who seemed immune to the posthypnotic sway of genitals, asked if he was up for this. Archie merely nodded. Good enough for Hardie.

Finally they came to the cell of Horsehead. The man was still curled up in a fetal position, never having fully recovered from his beating and electrocution of some time ago. The same thing that Hardie would have endured. His cell stank of urine because he repeatedly wet himself, having lost all bladder control. He twitched, and his hair stuck up in odd tufts here and there, stiff as dreads.

Hardie slid a key into the back of Horsehead’s mask, but nothing happened. Horsehead cursed in Italian, then tried to take the keys from Hardie. “Hang on, let me try another one.”

“Do you want to stay here?” Eve asked, pointing to the floor of his cell. “Or do you want to join us?” Pointing to the outside.

Horsehead nodded and pointed.

Yeah, he was down with the jailbreak.

Hardie tried another key, but nothing.

“We don’t have time for this,” Cameron said. “The mask stays on for now. We’ll figure it out later.”

Eve extended her hand. Horsehead, trembling, allowed himself to be pulled to a standing position. He swayed, as if intoxicated, and would have fallen back down to the floor if Cameron hadn’t grabbed him and thrown one of his beefy arms over his shoulder.

“All right, let’s go,” Archie said.

“Wait,” Eve said. “What about Prisoner Zero? We can’t just leave him.”

“Well, we can’t bloody well carry him,” Archie said. “We’ve already got two walking wounded.” Then, with glance at Hardie, “No offense.”

Hardie wanted to tell him to bloody well suck it. But Archie was right.

“We’ll have to come back for him. Victor told me that X-Ray and Yankee are in there with him. If he was telling the truth.”

“Where’s Whiskey?” Eve asked.

“No idea.”

Eve nodded. “Okay, she’s gotta be in here somewhere. So let’s sweep the outer ring, room by room, incapacitate the bastards, and take control of the prison. Lock them up in those cells.”

“And then find a way out of this hellhole,” Archie said.

“Where did you leave fuckface?” Cameron asked.

Hardie led them to the elevator room. No one was there except a still-unconscious—or faking—Ashley/Victor. Cameron knelt down beside him, touched his fingers to the guard’s wrist, then to his jugular, nodded to himself. There was a sadness to his movements, as if Victor were a longtime family dog who had suddenly turned and bitten the baby. Such a creature needed to be put down, but you did not relish the task.

“Stupid wanker,” muttered Cameron as he launched his fist into his former partner’s face. The punch was a single jackhammer blow—a white-hot blast of kinetic energy, expertly focused. If Victor had been faking, he wasn’t anymore. Cameron quickly stripped his former partner of his brown uniform.

“What are you doing?” Hardie asked.

“Camouflaging myself,” Cameron said. “I take the lead, maybe the outfit fools ’em. Buy us a second or two of time.”

The door to the break room was locked, but Hardie still had the keys from Victor’s chain.

“Let me,” Cameron said, holding out his hand.

Hardie hesitated, but knew it was right to hand them off. His left hand was still unreliable. Last thing he needed was to drop the damned keys.

The ragtag strike force gathered by the door: Cameron in the lead, Archie behind him, followed by Eve and Hardie, and, bringing up the rear, on his hands and knees now because he couldn’t support his own body weight—Horsehead.

Hardie nudged Eve. “What about him?”

“We’ll come back for him.”

The odds: not great. What, three and a half tired, beaten prisoners versus three guards with weapons? Eve had a pen, and Hardie had his cane. That was it. Hardie even felt vaguely guilty about hanging on to it. The one true weapon should be put into the hands of the most able-bodied prisoner. In this case, Archie.

“You want this?” Hardie asked, showing him the cane.

But the man shook his head and showed them his balled-up fists. “These are all I need.”

Cameron slid a key into the door, nothing. Tried another. Nothing. The third time, however, was the charm: a beep sounded, and the door clacked open. Cameron slipped inside the room, and—

“YEAGGGHHHHH!”

A horrible, inhuman scream as an insane amount of voltage ripped through his body.

The guards had been waiting for them.

That was because the Prisonmaster had informed Yankee and X-Ray that a jailbreak was in progress, that Victor had betrayed them, had given his former partner his keys and the uniform. He told Yankee, in English:

“This is the most dire threat we’ve ever faced, Yankee, and I’m counting on you to set things right.”

He told X-Ray, in German:

“This is the most dire threat we’ve ever faced, X-Ray, and I’m counting on you to set things right.”

He also told Yankee:

“You can trust X-Ray for the time being, but keep an eye on him. You’re the only one I know I can trust. I’m counting on you to uncover the betrayers.”

He told X-Ray, in German:

“You can trust Yankee for the time being, but keep an eye on him. You’re the only one I know I can trust. I’m counting on you.”

“But you need not fear,” the Prisonmaster told both of them. “Because in the end, after the rebellion is quashed, there will be extra prisoners in the cells, and new wardens will surely be sent down to live among you—good men and women who will help you restore order at long last.”

The Prisonmaster knew the power of hope, and, more important, how to exploit it. He’d been doing it for decades now.

Archie pushed Cameron’s twitching body aside and went in, swinging his fists as though they were studded metal balls attached to leather bands. Cameron’s keys went clattering to the cement floor.

Hardie thought: Someone pick up the keys.

Over near the door Archie traded chops and kicks with his archnemesis, X-Ray. Hardie dove past them, through the doorway and straight into the fray, aiming for those keys. An elbow slammed into his chest right away. Then another fist whipped across Hardie’s face. Somebody kicked the keys. They shot across the floor through the open doorway and into the corner room—where food and clothes were delivered. Without those keys, they were fucked. Might as well kneel down and take their beatings just to get them over with.

Scrambling across the floor, his right leg screaming at him, threatening to cease all movement, Hardie crawled through the doorway, then reached out and wrapped his right hand around the keys. A second later a boot came down on that hand, trapping and crushing it at the same time.

Instinctively, Hardie tried to yank his hand free. It wouldn’t move. The pain was unreal. Hardie thought he could feel veins bursting within the flesh sac of the thing that used to be his right hand, which was being crushed by the rubber sole of a boot from above and the sharp keys from below.

Hardie balled up his left hand into a fist and struck out, at crotch level, with all his strength. His fist struck its target. The boot released his hand. The boot turned out to belong to Whiskey.

And although she did not possess the pair of testicles that Hardie had imagined, the punch had its intended effect. Whiskey dropped to her knees, clutching at her private parts.

Yep, I’ve still got it, Hardie thought. Hitting women like a pro.

Hardie checked his hand. It still could open, but his palm was cut and punctured with key marks. There was a blur of motion to his left. Hardie looked up at the exact moment a fist smashed into the side of his head. Whiskey. She threw another punch, a sloppy but powerful left jab, muttered something profane in her own language, and followed up with a right hook that slammed Hardie back into the wall.

He also dropped the keys, and Whiskey swept them aside with a kick of her boot.

She looked like she was about to use the heel of her hand to drive a piece of his nose cartilage up into his brain when she stopped. Something crackled in her ear.

At that moment the Prisonmaster was shouting:

“Go to the break room and bar the door shut. Now! It’s your only chance!”

* * *

And Hardie could hear it.

Meanwhile the two able-bodied prisoners, Archie and Eve, battled Yankee and X-Ray back into the delivery room. X-Ray tried to use his wristband mace blast, but Archie slapped his arm away and gave him a brutal head butt to his nose. Blood gushed out and clung to the wispy blond hairs hanging down from Archie’s forehead. “For my brother, you cunt.” X-Ray staggered backward. Through the pain, though, he heard the voice of the Prisonmaster, speaking perfect German:

“Lock them in the delivery room and get back to the control room. Now! It’s your only chance!”

X-Ray grimaced and raced forward, smashing into Archie’s midsection and flinging him to the side. Out of the corner of his eye, Hardie could see that Yankee was doing the same thing with Eve, smashing his way past her body, except that he was scrambling in the other direction, toward the control room.

The realization hit Hardie and Eve at the same time: the guards were splitting up…to seal them in the delivery room.

If they were trapped in a single room, it was game over.

Hardie scuttled across the floor like a crab escaping a boiling pot of water. He scooped up his cane and threw it to Eve—who caught it and wedged it between the door and the frame just as Yankee and Whiskey were pulling it shut. The guards on the other side tried, but no amount of strength was sufficient to snap that cane in half. Meanwhile Archie held it in place, so they couldn’t kick it loose.

For the moment they were at a grunting, sweating impasse.

Eve, breathing heavily, lips bleeding, said, “Okay.”

Hardie said, “Wait—what’s okay?”

“We can’t go back to the way it was. We’ll never get this chance again. Got to end this thing now.”

“How are we supposed to do that?”

“I’m talking about winning the fucking war, the whole thing, once and for all, change everything forever.”

“Spit it out already,” Archie said.

“Send one of us up and out through the elevator.”

Hardie just stared at her. Do what?

“And trigger the death mechanism?” Archie asked.

“Hear me out,” Eve continued. “One of us gets out. Escapes the facility. Finds someone on the outside. Tells the truth about this place.”

“Killing everyone else,” Hardie said.

“But one of us gets out,” Eve added, “and the survivor has to bring the truth to the world. Hardie here knows someone who will listen. Don’t you, Charlie?”

“What?” Hardie asked. “No. No way. Bad idea.”

“Why?”

“Are you really prepared to kill everyone down here?” Hardie asked.

“For the greater good? Absolutely. If we don’t make this strike now, we’re all fucked. Things will get worse. This will go on and on and on…and nobody will know. Nobody will fucking know what went on down here! And I can’t have that.”

“No, she may be right,” Archie said. “The question is, of course…who goes?”

“Hardie goes,” Eve said.

Hardie blinked. “What? No. Unh-unh. This is insane.”

“You have a wife and a son waiting for you. Besides, I have my success rate to think about. I don’t complete my job if you die.”

“There’s another way,” Hardie said. “There’s always another way.” He wanted to quote Batman and his thing about prisons always containing their escape, but he decided it would take too long.

“No, there’s not, Charlie. You haven’t been here long enough to realize that. We all have. There is no way. They designed this thing perfectly—only one exit no one would ever dare take. Well, fuck that. One of us should take it. And I think that someone should be you. Put us all out of our misery and blow the lid off this place. Don’t forget everything I’ve told you about the people who run this pl—”

“No,” Hardie said sternly. “No. There’s no way I’m killing all of you.”

“You don’t understand—”

“No, Eve, you don’t understand. Why do you think I’m even here? Because I let my partner and his whole family die. And you want me to do it again? To all of you?”

Archie, in all his naked glory, nodded his head. “He’s right, you know.”

They turned to look at him.

“I should go,” he said.

“What?” Eve asked. “No. Fuck you—I don’t even know you. Hardie goes.”

Archie shook his head. “Mr. Hardie, you seem like a fine man and all, but the trick is going to be getting past these two guards and making it to the elevator while the rest of us are on defense—as you call it in American football. You were walking with a cane until very recently. What if you stumble? What if you can’t make it? As I see it, we only have one shot at this. The strongest and fastest should go. There is no time for false modesty here—I am the strongest and fastest.”

Archie made eye contact with each of them before continuing:

“You’re all okay with this, right? Good.”

And with that, he wrapped the fingers of both hands firmly around the edge of the door.

“Cover me.”

With almost superhuman strength, Archie wrenched open the door and dove in.

But the guards were ready for him.

The Prisonmaster told X-Ray:

“Under the table. Pull up the tile. Use any key to unlock them. Do it now.”

X-Ray quickly unlocked two weapons, keeping one for himself and passing the other to Whiskey. Now each of them had a device that resembled an electrified barbecue fork. The two prongs could be inserted deep into tissue and deliver a shock that was beyond any human being’s threshold of pain. Instant bodily shutdown.

Archie charged straight at them.

Whiskey and X-Ray braced themselves, weapons behind their backs.

They did not relish this moment.

They knew the devices in their hands could potentially kill the prisoners, and they did not consider themselves to be killers.

In fact, before they were brought to this place, they were considered heroes.

Whiskey’s real name was Mathilde Aslanides, and she’d made a career out of keeping people from harm. If your name appeared on a hit list, and the authorities failed or refused to protect you, Mathilde would. She knew how to hide, she knew how to fight, and until a team of vengeful assassins cornered her in a nasty Brazilian favela, she had helped save the lives of more than one hundred people. Her life was about preventing death, not becoming its agent.

In his former life, X-Ray worked on the flip side, helping people after their deaths. Under his real name—Lucas Dabrock—X-Ray was an expert at determining the real cause of any given death—not just what presented on the surface, not what the killers wanted you to think. If he was unable to prevent a death, then at least he could find and help punish those responsible—the ones who thought they could get away with it. Dabrock had been one of the most brilliant and sought-after pathologists in the world…until his enemies had conspired to bring him here, to this place of madness.

Now X-Ray held his weapon steady, knowing exactly where he needed to stab in order to take down the prisoner who was coming at them full bore.

At the last moment Archie dropped straight down and executed a kicking spin that knocked both guards off their feet.

In the confused tangle of bodies Archie stayed focused enough to grab one electrified barbecue fork, and, in a smooth efficient motion, plunge it into X-Ray’s testicles. X-Ray’s mouth made an O. Archie seized the other electrified barbecue fork just as Whiskey was about to plunge it into his heart. Whiskey was smart, determined, and excellent in battle. But she did not have Archie’s upper-arm strength. It was not a matter of skill; this was down to muscle. And Archie was able to turn the fork around and jab it between Whiskey’s breasts.

He triggered both electrified barbecue forks at the same moment. Both guards screamed, almost in harmony, albeit off-key.

Archie dropped the forks, scrambled up from the floor, and immediately began jogging toward the elevator vestibule.

Both X-Ray and Whiskey made a halfhearted effort to scramble after their prisoner, but they were in too much pain to move. Archie slammed the elevator-cage door shut. The guards screamed in terror. They knew what this meant.

This was death for all of them!

Archie smiled, gave him them the finger, then began to ascend.

Hardie heard the creaking, throbbing mechanism of the ancient elevator system reverberate throughout the entire facility, the screams and moans of the guards.

So this was how it was going to end.

Who was Hardie kidding? For him, everything had ended three years and God knows how many months ago—when he let Nate Parish and his family die, and when he’d survived by some quirk of medical fate. All this time he’d been a walking dead man.

A guy like Archie would go out there and punish the wicked better than any of them could.

Better than he could.

Archie kind of felt bad about what was about to happen.

Still, this was the absolute right thing to do. He was their best shot because Archie was a born survivor, extremely good at waiting until the right opportunity presented itself…then seizing it. He’d been waiting for such an opportunity ever since he’d been dropped into this infernal place. Now the chance was here, and he’d taken it. What rational being could blame him?

Still, innocent people were going to die. They had consented to the sacrifice; there was nothing he could do about it.

Archie couldn’t remember exactly how long he’d been here. Not as long as the others, certainly. He kept quiet, didn’t let the despair and chatter of the others affect him. That was key. Keeping your mind straight, tuning out the rest of the world’s clutter.

That was why he was still sane, and why he was getting out.

After what seemed like an eternity, the elevator ground to a noisy halt. He pulled aside the door, stepped into the vestibule. Archie reached for the knob. A small voice in his head, the one he never listened to, told him: It’s going to be locked. Archie twisted the knob. Unlocked. Archie smiled. The little voice, that annoying ghost of self-doubt, was always wrong. He was glad he hadn’t let the little voice get the best of him during his long stay. That little voice would drive you mad if you weren’t careful.

The doorway led to the room he dimly remembered from when he was first brought here. Table, chairs. That’s right. He’d woken up handcuffed to a chair. Someone had walked in and explained the deal to him. From that very first moment, Archie started waiting for the right opportunity.

Archie walked across the room and opened the second door, which led to a small room—another vestibule, only this one was made of steel. A fancy elevator, perhaps? Holding the door, he looked behind it for any possible control panel. No buttons. Maybe this was a safe room, meant to protect the occupant. After all, the person who had explained things to him had to have left this room alive, right? Archie closed the door behind him.

The little voice inside his head screamed at him: You’re a fool! Archie told the voice to shut up and not bother him anymore.

But there were no buttons. No secret switches. No options. No nothing. Another few minutes of searching, first calm, then frantic, led him to an unmistakable conclusion. This box led nowhere.

For the first time in his life, Archie Elder felt true despair.

Everyone in the facility waited for their deaths. Archie wouldn’t waste time; he would leave as soon as possible. The only questions now were: How would they die? Gas? Electricity? Undetectable poison? A bomb? Hidden guns? And how long before it happened?

But then a very surprising thing happened.

Nothing.

Death did not come down from above. No alarms, no hidden machine guns, no sarin gas, no flooding water…nothing at all. No sound at all.

Until there was suddenly a loud mechanical POP, a fat spark jumping a circuit.

The elevator whirred back to life. The cage was coming back down. Hardie didn’t understand until he saw Archie, head hung low, shuffling back into the delivery room.

“There’s no way out,” he said softly. “Just a dead end, sealed shut.”

Everyone in the room, prisoners and guards alike, looked at each other, the same realization dawning on them at the same moment.

There was no death mechanism.

They were all prisoners here.